


Cold Comforts

by queerli



Series: Dorian the Cat [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (also Dorian the cat comes to no harm in this story I promise), (but only a mention and the animal is revived later), Animal Death, Aziraphale’s Bookshop (Good Omens), Cats, Character(s) of Color, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dorian the Cat, Dorian the cat makes a reappearance, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Sickfic, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 19:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20051062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerli/pseuds/queerli
Summary: Winter is never an easy time of year for Crowley.





	Cold Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> Dorian the cat simply wouldn’t leave my mind, so here’s another fic of purely indulgent fluff.
> 
> Warnings: mention of (implied graphic) animal death (not Dorian), though the animal is revived later.

Crowley had never liked winter.

It could be pretty enough, sure, when the snow was just beginning to blanket the ground in a sheet of translucent white. Any further than that, though, and it was simply_ irritating_, to the highest degree. His shoes could never gain traction on the ice* no matter how cautiously he stepped, and where the ground wasn’t slippery, it was slushy and damp, inevitably allowing snowmelt to seep into his socks. He could technically miracle them dry, but it wasn’t the same; the mere memory of wet socks was enough to set his teeth on edge for the rest of the day.

[* Something about snake scales simply didn’t agree with icy surfaces.]

Then there was the blessed _ cold_. If there was one thing Crowley detested more than the ice and damp, it was the cold, which seemed to snuff out every inch of green in the area and replace it with a dull grey death. His plants were always more lethargic in the winter, no matter how high he turned up the thermostat, and no amount of threats and angry posturing could get them to behave. But the worst of it had to be its impact on his own snakish nature. He wasn’t cold-blooded, precisely, but he had always been more susceptible to the chill than most. Not to mention that winter never failed to bring about a sluggishness and lethargy in him — and not the enjoyable kind that came after a well-deserved nap, but the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that put him out for days and made him miss far too many dinner plans with his angel. Aziraphale never blamed him, of course, but he could see how much it upset Crowley despite how much he tried to hide it, which worried Aziraphale in turn.

This past week had been particularly difficult. London was in the middle of a cold snap, and not even the cozy warmth of Aziraphale’s bookshop could fully banish the chilly ache that seemed to penetrate Crowley right to his core. He burrowed deeper into his mound of blankets on the settee and shoved his snout beneath his coils. Aziraphale had conscientiously placed a hot water bottle amid the blankets in an effort to warm him up, but it was so small that it only really had any use when he shifted to his snake form and wrapped his entire body around it.

That, of course, brought its own brand of problems, on top of the existing misery that winter induced in him.

Crowley could feel the vibrations of Aziraphale’s footsteps as the angel approached the settee. There was a clink from the region of the coffee table — likely Aziraphale setting down a tray of tea — and then a gentle brown hand nudged aside the blankets obscuring Crowley’s face.

“No changes, my dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, settling down on the sofa beside him. Crowley unwound himself from around the cooling hot water bottle and made a beeline to the angel’s lap. The heat of Aziraphale’s skin against his scales made Crowley shudder and sigh in relief as Aziraphale ran a hand down his back. Oh, but the warmth was _ heavenly_.

“No changes,” he hissed, peering up at Aziraphale. He curled up into a fretful knot of coils around Aziraphale’s wrist. “It’s never been this bad, before. At least before, I could always change _ back_.”

Aziraphale wrapped a blanket around Crowley before lifting him up to eye level. “London hasn’t experienced such cold temperatures in over fifty years. That may have something to do with it.”

“I know,” Crowley grumbled, readjusting his grip. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Of course not, dear.” Aziraphale placed him carefully on his shoulder, an invitation for Crowley to slither beneath his undone collar and press himself against his neck. The extra body heat helped a bit, but not much.

“I’m so blessedly _ tired_,” Crowley said into Aziraphale’s jumper. “I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past month. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m sick of sleeping. Everything aches, and it feels like I’ve got cotton wool stuffed up to my ears, I can hardly think straight. I can’t go outside, and I can’t even _eat _because digestion takes too much energy in this form.”

Crowley felt like he was dangerously close to whining, but Aziraphale only stroked his scales in a soothing manner.

“Can’t drive the Bentley in this shape… no energy for miracles… can’t even use the bloody Internet,” Crowley muttered. “I hate thissss.”

The words slipped out before he could hold them back, and he cringed, withdrawing around Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale stopped him with a touch, then lifted him out in front of him when Crowley didn’t try to escape again. Crowley stared fixedly at the dip of skin near Aziraphale’s exposed throat, avoiding eye contact, but Aziraphale held him close and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” Aziraphale sighed. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”

“Sss’not fair,” Crowley said. He knew he was being petulant, but was too tired to care. “I can’t even kiss you properly.”

He was starting to shiver again, so Aziraphale placed him back in his lap and covered him with a knitted throw. Crowley nosed at the edges of Aziraphale’s sleeve while Aziraphale rearranged the blankets.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

Crowley exhaled with a long, resigned hiss. “No, not really. You can’t exactly miracle me back to human shape, after all.”

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said again.

“Don’t be. You’re already doing more than enough.” Guilt washed over Crowley like a wave. “Sssorry. I’m grateful, angel, I really am. I know I’m being difficult.”

Aziraphale rested a warm palm on Crowley’s back. “You’re not being difficult. You’re tired and ill — no one would fault you for being unhappy as a result.” A gentle, chastising tap on the snout. “You _are _allowed to be upset in my presence, you know. I won’t push you away because of it. You take care of me all the time. Let me take care of you, for once.”

Snakes don’t have tear ducts, but Crowley felt a bit choked up, nonetheless. He coiled around Aziraphale’s hand. “Thanksss, angel,” he mumbled.

For the next half-hour, Crowley drowsed uneasily, while Aziraphale buried himself in a novel and occasionally encouraged Crowley to sip from the tea he had prepared earlier, holding out the teacup for him. The tea did make him feel better, temporarily soothing the cold throbbing in his core.

It was during one of these draughts when Aziraphale suddenly sat up straight, jostling the cup and sloshing a bit of tea over Crowley’s snout. “Hey!” Crowley sputtered, shaking himself off. “What on earth —”

“One moment, my dear,” Aziraphale said excitedly, setting Crowley down in the blankets and balancing the cup on the settee cushions. “I just had a thought, be back in a jiffy…” And with that, he disappeared out the backroom and into the main shop to do who-knew-what. Crowley stared after him, then rolled his eyes and returned to his tea.

He was flicking out his tongue to catch the last dregs at the bottom of the cup when Aziraphale returned, with one significant addition in his arms. Crowley did a double-take at the sight of Dorian in his full fluffy glory dangling from Aziraphale’s grasp, and reared backwards before he could stop himself, upsetting the (fortunately near-empty) teacup.

“No,” Crowley hissed. “Absssolutely _ not_.”

Aziraphale stopped halfway across the room, face falling. Dorian looked politely confused.

“You don’t want him?” Aziraphale asked, crestfallen. “I thought having him nearby would cheer you up a bit.”

“That’s very sweet of you, angel,” Crowley said nervously, still reared upright and swaying slightly, “but my concern is that Dorian won’t be nearly as pleasant when he encounters me in this form.”

Understanding dawned on Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, poppycock,” he dismissed, closing the distance between him and Crowley. “Dorian’s missed you dreadfully these past few days; and besides, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

On that last point, Crowley begged to differ, having once seen the aftermath of an unhappy rat who had had the misfortune to enter the bookshop, right into Dorian’s outstretched claws.** Aziraphale settled down on the settee, Dorian in his lap, and Crowley scrambled backwards — or, well, squirmed and wriggled, without much success — onto the arm of the couch. Aziraphale tutted at him.

[** Crowley, who had never been fond of the sight of blood in the first place, was forced to call on Aziraphale to miracle away the mess. Aziraphale had done so with an easy wave of his hand, even resurrecting the rat in the process and transporting it to a safer, cat-free location, but Crowley still didn’t like stepping over those particular floorboards near the shelf of Greek poets.]

“Really, Crowley. You act as though I’ve brought a hellhound into the room.”

“He’s not a hellhound, but he’s definitely a _ cat_. You know, the natural enemy of snakes?” Crowley snapped, heart hammering. “Have you not seen those videos on YouTube with the cats getting startled and -- and the cucumbers?”

“I don’t see what cucumbers have to do with anything.” Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “Are you feeling alright? Perhaps I ought to get the electric blanket from upstairs.”

He pushed himself up and made for the stairwell, leaving Dorian on the couch, staring at Crowley with wide green eyes.

“A-angel?” Crowley called nervously. “Please don’t leave me alone with the beast.”

“I’ll only be a moment, dear,” Aziraphale’s voice floated down the hall.

“Wonderful,” Crowley muttered, warily sliding off the arm of the settee onto the seat cushion. Dorian was already a fairly large cat, but from Crowley’s diminished size, he looked positively massive, towering over his head like a furry Godzilla, if Godzilla had wickedly sharp claws instead of radioactive breath. Did Godzilla have claws? Crowley couldn’t recall. He was possibly getting a bit muddled, and to top it all off, he was cold again, the blankets being on the other side of the couch while his primary source of warmth was upstairs rummaging around in their bedroom, if the creaking ceiling was any indication.

Dorian watched Crowley’s every move with a waving tail and dilated pupils. Crowley resisted the urge to coil up in a defensive huddle, and instead stretched himself out and showed his belly. “No clue if you recognize me or not,” Crowley said under his breath. “Do you even know I’m not exactly a snake?” Dorian took a step forward. “For Someone’s sake, please don’t discorporate me.”

Dorian chirped and waved his tail. Then he sprang forward, and Crowley flinched and instinctively curled back up. But no claws or fangs so much as nicked his scales; instead, a warm, furry weight settled over him in a deluge of smothering, crushing affection. Crowley wheezed, and barely managed to wriggle out from beneath Dorian’s belly in time before he risked drowning in fluff. Dorian, purring loudly, reached out a large, soft paw and dragged Crowley back towards him.

“Yeah, yeah. I missed you too,” Crowley mumbled, hissing out a sigh of relief. He shifted to a more comfortable position, and Dorian moved to accommodate him, curling around him as though sensing that his other owner needed the warmth.

Crowley squirmed when a rough tongue ran over his scales. “That tickles, you beast,” he groused. The chesty rumbles of Dorian’s purrs were strangely soothing, however, and Crowley relaxed, resting his head on Dorian’s paw. This was even warmer than being in Aziraphale’s lap, he realized. Something about being fully blanketed by fuzzy, longhaired cat made the cold an easy thing to forget.

“Comfortable?” a voice above them teased. Aziraphale’s hand drifted downwards to stroke Dorian’s fur.

Through the long fur obscuring his face, Crowley squinted up at Aziraphale’s blurry silhouette. “How did you know he wasn’t going to attack me for being a snake?”

Aziraphale sat down with a contented sigh on the settee beside them, picking up his first edition of _ The Hound of the Baskervilles _ and opening it to the bookmarked page.

“It was but a simple deduction, my dear,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Your aura is always the same, no matter what form you take.”

“My aura?” Crowley was feeling increasingly sleepy by the second.

“Animals can be quite attuned to such things, you know. And Dorian has always been such a perceptive soul.”

“We’ve barely had him for a month, angel. And he’s a cat. How can you tell if he’s perceptive or not?”

“Mm. You forget that angels can sense love, my dear, from any living being on Earth.”

The electric blanket that Aziraphale had brought downstairs settled over Crowley’s upper half. Dorian didn’t seem to mind this addition to their pile, only batting at it playfully once before flopping back down on his side. The cold ache hadn’t fully vanished from Crowley’s bones, but it was much, much easier to ignore. He yawned.

“Sleep well,” said Aziraphale quietly, as Crowley drifted into the most peaceful slumber he’d had in days. “I hope you feel better soon.”

* * *

Three days later, Crowley was ready to transform back.

The weather, thankfully, had warmed up considerably. As a result, Crowley began to feel more alert, and less like he’d been awake for a hundred years and needed a nap of equal length to recharge. He slithered out from beneath the bedcovers onto the rug, and after taking a few deep breaths to brace himself, slipped out of his snake form back into his favourite shape.

He’d neglected to account for the size difference, and ended up smacking his head against the bed when he tried to sit up. The pain was easily miracled away, though (he could do _ miracles _ again!), and when Aziraphale, alarmed and still half-asleep, fumbled on the lamp and looked over the side of the bed, it was to the sight of Crowley sitting on the bedroom floor, grinning widely, clenching and unclenching his hands and studying his fingers.

“It worked!” he crowed when he saw Aziraphale awake. “Angel, it _ worked! _ I was worried for a second that it wouldn’t, but it did!”

“I can see that, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, though he, too, was smiling. “May I suggest you put some clothes on before you catch another chill?”

“What are you — oh.” Crowley looked down at himself and sheepishly snapped his usual black silk pyjamas onto his body. “Sorry, didn’t notice.”

“No need for apologies. I’m simply glad you’re feeling better.” Aziraphale pulled back the covers invitingly. “Come back to bed? It’s only four in the morning.”

“I will, in a moment. Just have to do something first.”

Crowley pulled on Aziraphale’s dressing-gown, and after a moment’s thought, miracled on a pair of fluffy socks for his feet. He may have been feeling better, but it was still bitterly cold, and the chill was already creeping over his exposed skin, now that he was outside the cocoon of warm blankets. He would be fine for a few minutes, however, which was more than enough time for what he planned to do.

He padded downstairs, relishing in the feel of the wooden railing beneath his fingers. There was nothing quite like the relief of seeing glossy scales roll back into tawny skin as he reformed his human corporation atom by atom, cell by cell. Being a snake was fine under certain circumstances, but there was good reason why he always returned to his favourite shape at the end of the day.

Soon enough, he found who he was looking for in the kitchen, lapping at the bowl of water that Aziraphale had set beside several of Crowley’s potted plants.*** Dorian’s ears swiveled ‘round at the sound of Crowley’s footsteps coming down the hall, and the cat gave a delighted meow when his second owner came into view, now restored to his usual form.

[*** Cat-safe plants, of course. Any plants that didn’t agree with felines stayed behind in Crowley’s old flat, since he’d mostly moved in with Aziraphale by now.]

“Hullo,” Crowley said affably as Dorian rubbed against his legs. He knelt down to give Dorian a proper petting. “It’s good to see you, too, you noisy nuisance.”

Dorian meowed even more loudly and flopped down on the floor, exposing the inviting fluff of his belly. Crowley was well-aware of that trap, and instead rubbed Dorian’s ears, feeling the vibrations beneath his fingers as Dorian purred.

“One would think you’re even happier than I am to get my human body back,” Crowley laughed, tickling Dorian’s chin. “Can’t exactly pet you when I’m a snake, hm?”

After a few more moments of enthusiastic petting, he scooped Dorian up and cradled him easily in his arms. Dorian batted at his face with thankfully-sheathed paws, which Crowley dodged.

“No sunglasses today, I’m afraid,” Crowley told him, petting him idly as he walked back to the stairwell.

At the foot of the stairs, he hesitated. He glanced at Dorian’s cat bed in the corner, then at the cat himself, lying limp and blissful in his arms. Dorian wasn’t barred from their bedroom, per se, but he rarely slept with them on their actual bed, since he had something of a tendency to kick.

After a few seconds’ deliberation, Crowley decided that he and Aziraphale could put up with paws digging into their ribs for one night. He ascended the stairs and headed back to bed, with Dorian in tow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and feedback are always much appreciated. ❤️
> 
> Tumblr: ethereal-not-occult, where I yell excitedly about Good Omens.


End file.
